Bogey man's got nothing on me
by EveryHonestEffort
Summary: As a child veteran of war, Ginny Weasley could admit she had grown up highly motivated by fear.


Thoughts developed from all the character hate I see for Ron and Ginny. Love potions, shallow values, essentialism of long-involved characters…they had the potential to be developed more, but alas, as side friends and lovers, everything is subtext waiting to be explored. This is an exploration.

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As a child veteran of war, Ginny Weasley could admit she had grown up highly motivated by fear.

From the early age where most preteens would be sighing over crushes and concerned over appearances (maybe develop their magic too), she had been exposed to the dark charisma of power: wrapped nicely as a confidant, an apparent friend from whom she could taketaketake never realizing the price she had no option of but to be taken from. Ginevra Weasley slept in ignorance but woke up in sheer terror; mind fully aware of reality in a dark cold dungeon with a giant killer snake and a hole in her soul where it was poured out upon pages.

From then on she lived in fear. Fear of what could come for her, of the warning sign that the being who convinced the powerful to genocide was not as dead as claimed, fear of _helplessness_ , the ability to do nothing.

But what is a Griffindor besides one who faces their fear? _Courage_ their house whispers, in their attempts of brash stupidity, in the stand against the opposition: trembling, frozen, but still standing. And so the youngest of the Weasley clan stood, and did not face those fears. Instead they directed her, powered her forward that one day she may overcome. She had Griffindor's spirit to all who saw her; it would take years before her heart embodied it.

Thus she grew. Not quite by wisdom and stature, but by ruthlessness tempered by a care for _her_ people. For lionesses are the ones who hunt, prowling, stalking, pursuing prey to take them down for the kill. There was a temper waiting to be unleashed and a wand quick to hex. Bats would never be the same for her victims.

Even as she came by strength, fear whispered insecurities from the dark corner of her mind. And so she sought out strength, yearning for approval and admiration that would legitimize her efforts. The results were relationships to clarify her value, another round of taking to fill the void left by foreign soul and basilisk venom. People are not meant to give forever unless they too receive. Brokeness can not be fixed by another, elsewise they too become broken pouring into the chasm. Ginny Weasley moved from person to person, Luna Lovegood a constant by her side: while she didn't give as much she was all the more a steady presence.

Then there was Harry Potter. A childhood crush, left in pieces with her soul in that hidden chamber. She admired him, for all his bravery of things he did not want to face, standing as himself in defiance of the lies from every corner. He was strength because no one else would be. He was rebellion where the masses did not know they could rebel. Harry Potter could not give besides the inspiration struck from living his definition of normal. There was too much for him to fight and no source for him to draw upon besides the shallow support of friends (for everything is shallow after soul-deep pain).

Only Ginny empathized with the depth of darkness imprinted upon him amongst their age group, though nobody could ever guess it. She had been touched by Tom Marvolo Riddle, the core of her being drawn out by bleeding ink on pages and a forbidden force she could not begin to comprehend. And so she empathized, tried to be his support as a teammate, a peer, a lieutenant under his command.

Somehow in her brokenness and fear, she began to give to Harry Potter. Not in the way she received; he was not empty but rather fractured, hard-pressed but not in pieces. She would be there, steady when her brother fluctuated in his own adolescent troubles. Even while she still took from others, for Harry Potter she would give, as he had no demands.

That fierceness, that passion for life slowly overcoming the shadow of fear somehow transformed into a romantic care for Harry. Or perhaps it was Harry who turned to her, accepting and needing her liveliness, motivation to move forward against the growing threat of darkness. Someone to catch his stumbling, to show his vulnerability as a teenager with a man's lifetime of responsibility set on the ticking clock of his mortality. She would continue to support him from this new position, although a growing sense of _mine_ to protect and fight for developed.

In the inevitable break-up (for stupid noble reasons tangled in fear – oh that fear) the ugly doubts and whispers of inadequacy sprung up again, almost driving her to recklessness in her growing fury against the enemy. She staged a back-handed rebellion, grimly laughing in the face of fake authority who made her peers bleed and scream with techniques she learned as forbidden. She fully wore the mantle of blood-traitor, suffering proudly for it.

She was a Weasley. She had fire in her hair and fire in her veins, simmering as the famous 'Weasley temper' throughout Hogwarts. It showed alongside her brothers when excluded from 'adult' matters, rebelling against a mother who was a domesticated housewife. Yet on that day of victory and loss, witness to the cry of "Not my daughter, you bitch!" perhaps she was more Prewett than previously acknowledged. Perhaps her territorial nature for people ( _family, she thinks_ ) was hereditary, just not from her mild father's side (his temper took longer to burn through).

In the aftermath of a wrecked castle, remains of the place she called home, her fear died. What was left was grief, nestled between weariness and relief. Her learned Griffindor strength finally embodied itself as she stood with her veterans, walking through the ranks, caring for her people with tear tracks cleaning lines of dirt smudged on her face. The following weeks were lived in quiet strength, eventually coming to stand next to her leader as he watched the black lake, face void of any emotion.

She broke the silence, confirming the gift he possessed from second year. "Whatever my place, I will be _for_ you."

Ginevra Weasley grew up with fear. After the war she lived.

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There are probably inaccuracies in this. They may be fixed as they are pointed out. I ramble in the face of grammar and run on sentences.


End file.
